Pep Talk From a Neurotic Mind

You know how in the Renaissance, poets were super into immortalizing themselves through verse?  Guys like Shakespeare and Spenser believed that if they wrote something truly exceptional, that piece of them would live forever, preserving their passion and memory until the end of time.

That may seem like a lofty goal, but the thing is—I’ve already achieved it.  I was immortalized on a hallowed day in 2009, when I was quoted in the Westlake High School yearbook:

It’s wise, it’s true, and it was definitely worth blowing up to fill an eighth of a yearbook page, because otherwise, no one would know what to do at lunchtime.  This is my legacy; it’s all the Westlake Warriors have to remember me by.  Which is great, because I’ve spent the last five years trying to forget high school.

When you were a teenager, did a bald fat man ever look at you, sigh wistfully, and tell you that you were living the best years of your life?  Did it make you think, “Holy shit, I have to fucking kill myself?”  If so, what a weird coincidence!  Because that exact same thing happened to me!  This bald fat man really gets around!

I hope you didn’t listen to him, though, because that guy is the same guy that wears a lot of sweaty track suits and tells pretty girls they should smile more.  I’ve only been out of high school for five years, but already those five years have been an infinite improvement.

Started from the bottom, now we here

If, at my high school graduation, you had asked me where I saw myself in five years, I would have been like, “Ughh, easy question.  I’ll be living with my sister in a two-bedroom apartment in Los Angeles.  I’ll be working as an assistant on a TV show called ‘Outlander,’ having gone to college and majored in Literature and Theatre Arts.  But—plot-twist—I’ll be super into comedy.  Random, I know, because I’m not into comedy at ALL right now!  And I rarely speak!  It will all start halfway through college, when I decide I want to work in entertainment, and I intern for ‘Entertainment Tonight’ and ‘The Insider.’  They’ll assign me articles to write, some of which will be satires, and I’ll realize that I like humor as a means of expressing myself, so I’ll start posting funny ideas on Facebook and Twitter.  My friends will encourage me to start a blog, and from there, I’ll become an intern for Conan O’Brien.  I’ll discover that writing comedy is where I most thrive, but the Conan writers will advise me to get some performance experience.  I’ll randomly audition for an improv team in San Diego after receiving a mass email from them, and I’ll get cast, because I’ll be considered “shameless” and “lacking an embarrassment complex,” which apparently are positive things for a comedian.  I’ll spend the next few months feeling happy, free, confused, and lonely, which will, ironically, be the lyrics to a hit Taylor Swift song at the time.  (Taylor Swift has more staying power than we know.)  That’s when I’ll graduate, move to LA, and split my time between work, improvising, writing, and drinking wine while watching Netflix.  Obviously.”

Am I about to get preachy?  Never listen to me preach.  I am literally talking out of my ass 98% of the time.  Look, I just misused the word “literally” in a really gross way.  But I do have a point, and my point is that five years ago, I had NO IDEA I would be here now, and yet I’m so happy that I am.  So even though I frequently worry about my future, panic about my career, and wonder if I’m doing everything “right” while shoving ice cream into my face, deep down inside, I know I need to calm the frick down.

They say you should live the life you have imagined, and to an extent, that’s true—but my life has already been so much bigger and fuller than I ever could have imagined.  We put so much pressure on ourselves and the universe to make our dreams come true, when really, dreams can change and evolve at any moment.  Sometimes our dreams fail, but maybe that’s because they’re too small and limited to support the people we are and the people we could be.  I have spent so much of my life being cynical, and I've never had any right to be.

Working towards bettering ourselves, pursuing our passions—that shit’s important.  But imagining that we know exactly where we want to be in five years, when this world is huge and unpredictable, and we are individuals brimming with potential—that’s the real joke.  Where will you be in five years?  You’ll be in 2019.  Or maybe not.  Maybe you’ll be dead.  Have I gone too far?  I hope you won’t be dead.

I hope we’ll be wonderfully surprised with whatever our lives have become.

So quote me on THAT in your yearbook.  And remind me that I wrote this blog post the next time I’m hiding under a homemade tent of snuggies freaking out about my life (approximately twenty minutes from now.)

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The 22 Most Cliché Engagement Photos

Congratulations, you're engaged!!!!  You've already spent countless hours grooming your "Here Comes the Bride" Pinterest page, and your announcement on Facebook got over 100 likes.  But now it's time for ENGAGEMENT PHOTOS!!!

You need a picture to accompany your "Save the Date," and that cute candid of you two smiling just won't do.  If social media has taught us anything, it's that there are certain obligatory engagement photos you must recreate.  So put on the uniform--boots and an ethereal dress--and get going!!

1.  The Smug Serious Closeup Pic

2.  The Walking into a Bright Future Pic

3.  The He's-Hugging-You-From-Behind Pic

Like prom, but better!

4.  The Fulfilling Gender Roles Pic

5.  The "Here is a Tender Moment, Also Please Note my Ring" Pic

6.  The "Let's Face this Head-on Together" Pic

7.  The Just-the-Legs Pic

8.  The Pointing at Nothing in Particular Pic

9.  The Sitting on a Picket Fence Pic

10.  The Piggyback Ride Pic

11.  The Romping Pic

12.  The Dancing Pic

13.  The Pray Together Stay Together Pic

14.  The Dragging (to the Altar!) Pic

15.  The Just-the-Feet Pic

16.  The Just-the-Hands Pic

17.  The Leaning Against a Wall Pic 

18.  The Picnic Pic

19.  The Tender "Is There a Photographer Here?  I Thought We Were Alone" Pic

20.  The Popped-Foot with a Sign Pic

21.  The Playful Pic

22.  The Bird's-Eye Laying on a Blanket with Feet at Different Ends Looking at Each Other Pic

Suuuuuhhhh cute, #amIright???  

A few of you might have some questions, like, "Why are they all country themed?" "What if I live in Los Angeles?"  "Why are there so many picture of isolated body parts?" and "When did this become a thing?"  I can't answer your questions, because I think you just don't understand love in the time of Pinterest.  But if you really don't want to recreate these exact photos, you can have your pictures taken at the beach, alongside some train tracks, or leaning against an old truck.  <3

***Special thanks to the most wonderfully enthusiastic fake-fiancee a girl could dream of, male supermodel Matthew Hays, and our brilliantly talented and encouraging photographer, Jennifer Halligan, who gave us such on-point notes as, "Don't do that, it looks rapey."

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My Boyfriend Gym

The longest gym relationship I’ve ever had was with a place called “Total Woman Gym and Day Spa.”  I’m not shy in admitting that I loved Total Woman.  I was comfortable there; it was a good fit.  We were together for one year before I left for college, and whenever I went home for the summer, I would fall back into the routine of working out there every day.*

(*Occasionally.)

But things changed after I graduated.  I moved to a new city, I had a smaller budget, and while I wouldn’t say that I’d NEVER go back to Total Woman, it was time for me to start playing the field, trying out new gyms, seeing what I liked.  So like all desperate people searching for something new, I decided to look online.

Showing up to a new gym with my pre-purchased Groupon was like going on a blind date where I discovered that my match was 98% Russian and 100% void of cleaning supplies.  They never gave me an ID card or had me sign any forms; the bodybuilding owner just took a sneaky candid photo of me on my first day there, “for insurance.”  I don’t want to explicitly say that he was in the Russian mafia, but he was definitely in the Russian mafia.  Plus, the women’s restroom was just a toilet, a card table, and a lone bottle of hairspray hidden behind a red velvet curtain.

So it isn’t surprising that I was wooed away by a large chain workout facility I’ll here refer to as “Gold’s Gym.”  (It was Gold’s Gym.)  I was coming off a short, cheap gym membership that made me feel bad about myself, and Gold’s was just there, immediately, looking wildly attractive with a bright yellow flyer and a promise to support me in all my fitness needs.

My first night there, I was ushered into a small room with a man I’ll refer to as “Carlos,” because all gym trainers should be, and probably are, named Carlos.  Carlos told me he wanted to make me “HUUGE,” pronounced “OOJ,” and insisted that I give up drinking diet coke and eating chocolate more than once per week.  “Sure, Carlos,” I agreed, my subtext being, “I will never come back here again.”  Carlos behaved like a young Mormon missionary who had just scored his first ever convert to the faith, and with soul-crushing dread, I realized that he was far more invested in this membership than I was. He even invited me over to his apartment to watch HBO/drink his tequila while he was away at work.  He was shining with happiness, and I realized that he actually saw a future for us—a future where I was “OOJ” and had really low cholesterol.  I felt shitty about inevitably disappointing him, and a voice in the back of my head accused me of being emotionally closed-off and crippled by fear, so I agreed to return to the gym tomorrow.  I awkwardly accepted his several high-fives and ventured into the wider gym area to give it the old college try.

It took me .7 seconds to determine that this was not the right gym for me.  The bodybuilders were staring at me, wondering who I was and why I didn’t have a barbed wire forearm tattoo.  I decided to take their stares as flattery.  Like, “YES, boys, I HAVE been on this elliptical for twenty minutes.  Resistance level 8.  Form an orderly queue!”

I was sure I’d never go back to Gold’s Gym, until three days later, when CARLOS CALLED ME.  My phone was on speakerphone, and my sister recorded the whole thing.  Here is the ACTUAL transcript:

Me: Hello?
C: This is CARLOS!! From Gold's Gym!!
Me: (nervous laughter)
C: So did the rain keep you from coming to the gym today??
Me: Um… maybe!!
C: Ahh, that's okay, though, I see the rain can be kinda scary, especially for Californians!  So I get it.  But you better come in tomorrow for our open house!!
Me: Ummm, I don't know.  If I have time.  I get off late.
C: Our hours are ‘til midnight!! What time do you get off?
Me: (more nervous laughter)
C: Our hours are until midnight!  So what time will you be in?
Me: Carlosss!! I don't know if I can commit to this!
C: ANNA!! Yes you can commit to this!! (Such joyful exuberance)  You can DOOO IT!  I brought you three chocolate kisses today!
Me: Ahh, I was going to get those today??
C: YES!! I brought CHOCOLATE to the GYM for you!!! So what time will you be in tomorrow?
Me: Carlos... umm... maybe… 8-ish?
C: I have you down for 8:30!  Can't wait to see you!!

The next day I actually showed up at 8:30, and Carlos WASN’T THERE.  It was just me with an old iPod I’d borrowed from a friend, which only contained music by Bon Iver.  I tried to work up some Carlos-worthy enthusiasm on the elliptical, but it wasn’t easy with Bon Iver quietly weeping in the background.  I thought that I’d been stood up, or that, more likely, Carlos had died while trying to get to me.

Around 9:30, another Gold’s employee informed me that Carlos had arrived, but it was too late.  I hated it there, with its bright neon lights and its competitive atmosphere and the total lack of fashion magazines.  I pulled up my hood and snuck away without even saying goodbye.

A few days later, Carlos called me again.  My heart breaking inside my chest, I explained to him that I couldn’t return to Gold’s Gym, mostly because they didn’t have magazines.  Carlos was a model of understanding and compassion: “Anna, I’m so sorry to hear that.  But when you change your mind, I want you to know that our door will always be open, and we will ALWAYS be here for you.”   I almost cried.  Because I knew we weren’t right for each other, but it was nice to know that Gold’s and I could continue to be friends.

I wish I could end this post by telling you that I found a new gym and lived happily ever after.  Or I wish I could tell you that I decided I didn’t need a gym—that I’m a strong, independent woman who’s way too focused on her career right now to even think about working out.  But the truth is, I’m just like anybody else, navigating my way through life and trying to find the perfect gym to spend my life with.  And it can be scary, and it can be discouraging, but all I can do is get back up on that stationary bike and ride.


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Realistic Valentines For When Hallmark Just Doesn't Cut It

Valentine's Day is coming, and it's time to tell that special someone how you REALLY feel.  But dating in the 21st century is hard, and it's even HARDER to find a Hallmark card that really suits your love story.  Two teddy bears hugging?  Naked babies with bows and arrows?  WHO NEEDS IT?  For your convenience, I've made some realistic (and adorable) love letters for you to distribute this Valentine's Day.  Just print, seal with a kiss, and SEND.

Happy Valentine's Day.  You are all my insignificant others.  <3

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That Time I Got My Head Chopped Off

In my improv class the other day, a girl was asked to deliver an impromptu personal monologue based off the suggestion “London.”

“I’m gonna share something about me that’s, like, really weird,” she began, ringing her hands as she shifted from one foot to another.  “It’s kind of embarrassing, but I’m, like, really into Tudor history.  I can name all six wives of King Henry VIII, I’ve read a ton of books about Queen Elizabeth, and I’ve seen ‘The Other Boleyn Girl’ twice.”  She shrugged apologetically as she glanced around the room.  “I know that’s, like, so weird.”

It’s probably a good thing I didn’t tell the class about my own experience with Tudor history, because if she’s considered “weird,” then lock me up in The Tower and throw away the key.  My “weirdness” takes the freakin’ cake.

I was nine years old when I first discovered my parents’ large coffee table book with portraits of the English monarchy.  I remember poring over a picture of Anne Boleyn and staring into her eyes, gently caressing her “B” choker and drawing one finger down the gentle curve of her neck.  I thought to myself, “I was once you.”

From then on, I had no trouble preaching to my friends about recreation, which I referred to as “recycling,” and I openly believed/bragged that I had been Anne Boleyn in a past life.  People called her “slutty” and “manipulative,” but I called her/myself “misunderstood.”

You see, Anne was just a young girl when she first laid eyes on King Henry VIII.  He didn’t notice her, but she saw him, and he looked FABULOUS—these were the years before his obesity and gout.  Anne knew in her heart that she was destined to sit by his side and be Royal.  She was very unlike Lorde in that way.

Anne’s power-hungry ambition made her into something of a shady character, if she wasn’t already one to begin with.  In fact, some people thought she was a witch, because she had a tiny extra nubblet of a finger on her right hand, and she liked to wear her hair down a lot, which I guess was considered skanky.  She had a number of romantic dalliances with the men at Court before eventually drawing the eye of the married King.  She wanted to be more than his mistress, though—she wanted to be his queen—so she refused to sleep with him, using sex as leverage to get him to do whatever she wanted.  Eventually she promised him a male heir to the throne, so he casually demolished the Catholic Church in England, divorced his wife, and married her.

Bad news for Anne, though: Henry was BATSHIT INSANE.  When she gave birth to a daughter instead of a son, he assumed it was because she had cheated on him… with her own brother… and he had her head chopped off.  He was not a very nice dude.

So at age nine, I heard this story and RELATED to it.  In fact, at that time, I would have told you this story from the first person perspective.  Despite not even having a concrete understanding of what sex was, I was always quick to defend Anne:  “I did what I had to do to win!  Judge me, peasants!”

This was how I “knew” I was Anne in a past life:
1.  Our names are very similar, and it’s proven that she might actually be one of my ancestors.
2.  We both like music and poetry, unlike anyone else in the world.
3.  She was ambitious, intense, and borderline power-hungry, which I also apparently was as a nine-year-old.
4.  I have a very real phobia of necks, and:
5.  I JUST FELT IT IN MY BONES.

In reality, I suppose I just had a really big girl crush on her.  She was the original femme fatale, beautiful and strong within the context of her time.  I wanted to be as captivating and alluring as Anne—I wanted to draw powerful men to their knees just with a twitch of my six-fingered hand.

This whole obsession culminated with my sister and I visiting London, learning everything we could about the Tudor dynasty, and then making a historical film about King Henry VIII with our Barbie dolls.  It was complete with royal births, beheadings, and musical numbers, and it received an Academy Award nomination for cinematography.

The most important thing for you to take out of this, though, is that no matter how weird you think your obsessions may be, you are PROBABLY not the weirdest one out there.  If the Internet has taught me anything, it’s that.  Because I may have thought I was Anne Boleyn, and I might have made Barbie films about her, but I’m actually not the only one.  In fact, there are HUNDREDS of people on the Internet who proclaim to be the reincarnation of Anne Boleyn. There are so many “Fanne Boleyns” out there that someone is actually making money selling these T-shirts:

I like to think that it would really piss Anne Boleyn off, but then, I wouldn’t know.
Or would I?  Love, Ann(e/a)

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Body Language: How to Flirt!

Ladies, your relationship woes are HISTORY.  Here's how to attract the perfect man:

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On Fulfillment, Depression, and Buying Paper Towels

I must have made a pretty depressing image, tottering down the street toward my office building carrying a gargantuan 24-pack of  “HUGE ROLL!” paper towels, the receipt clutched in my sweaty, balled-up fist.  Or maybe it wasn’t depressing.  Maybe no one noticed at all.

But I found myself thinking, “This would be the most depressing time ever for me to get mugged.”  Waddling along the sidewalk, just a pair of legs beneath the massive and unwieldy package.  It wasn’t heavy, it was just broad, and I found myself hugging it against my chest, my arms stretched around it like a beach ball or a pillow or a child.  I imagined a thief, desperately in need of some cash, lurking in the alleyways and thinking, “I’ve gotta do this.  I’ve just gotta hold up the next person I see.”  But then he would see me, a vulnerable oversized woman-child plunking across the pavement, and a giant lump would form in the back of his throat.  “Not her,” he would think.  “Oh god, not her.  It’s too depressing.”

Me with my paper towels.  Depressing.

As I turned the corner, I saw a pretty little girl in a private school uniform, reading a book outside the beauty supply store where her mother shopped.  “Your life will not turn out how you think it will,” I suddenly wanted to tell her.  “Your life will be tragic and hard.”  But that wouldn’t have been very nice.

I can’t explain why it was so depressing, you see.  Why feel sorry for myself for carrying paper towels?  Do I think I’m entitled to something better?

No.  It was just that I looked at that little girl and thought—someday she will be me.  And when I was that age, when I was her age, I never would have pictured myself as I am now, lumping along hugging a package of paper towels.  I’m sure I used paper towels, but I never would have even thought about how they appeared in their place.  I wouldn’t have imagined walking to Rite Aid to buy them.  I wouldn’t have thought that they’d be $13.07 and my reaction would be, “JESUS, that’s more than I make in an hour.”  I wouldn’t have pictured myself picking out just the exact right amount of change and handing it to the cashier, before asking for my receipt so I could budget the transaction properly.  And I wouldn’t imagine myself just waddling steadily away.

I don’t remember exactly how I pictured my adult, grown-up life.  I don’t think I thought it would be very glamorous.  But I just didn’t envision myself with these paper towels.

How silly.  As though “myself with these paper towels” is who I am now, all I am now, what I do.  I realize that’s reductive, as though instead of being a person completing a task, I am a person defined by this single, inconsequential moment in time.  But when you think about it, for the people who drove by me during my walk, that’s really all I was.  A barely-visible girl walking down the street.  To nowhere.  From nowhere.  Just cuddling those paper towels.

But I wasn’t going nowhere, I was going back to work, which feels like home to me now.  And when I arrived, I wheezed up to the penthouse floor, tossed a few rolls into the kitchen, and stuffed another 17 into the bathroom.  And then I saw—there, in the corner—a roll of paper towels.  That had been there all along.  And my heart just about broke.  It just about goddamn broke.

But this story isn’t about paper towels, or my work, or money.  And I wasn’t upset about the walking, because I really wanted to walk, and it was a really beautiful day.  It was just that in that moment, I realized that I was dissatisfied with my life.  That nothing in my life had gone wrong, and everything was normal, and that I was still unhappy, because this life just wasn’t how I’d imagined, it wasn’t what I’d dreamed it would be.  Because I’d thought my life would be different, maybe just because I was naïve.

You can say that I was depressed because I chose to see things a certain way.  Instead of focusing on the beautiful day, or the many things in life I have to be grateful for, I chose to feel sorry for myself and be cynical and sad.  And I finally remembered what people mean when they say that happiness is a choice.

But choosing happiness isn’t easy.  It’s not like flipping a switch or skipping dessert or asking for paper instead of plastic.  We can’t always wake up in the morning and say, “Today, I will be happy.”  We have to work for happiness, by finding what makes us fulfilled.

Being fulfilled is about utilizing passions and pursuing dreams.  Being unfulfilled is like being trapped underwater, screaming.  You go through the monotony of your day with something festering inside of you, smiling and laughing while you rot from the inside out.  You go to work, you come home, you turn on your TV, you go to sleep.  You try to immediately satisfy your needs—maybe you drink too much or eat too much or buy shit you don’t need—you find diversions and distractions to drown out the voice in your head that says, “This life is not enough.”  But these are just Band-Aids for broken people.

When I graduated from college, I came to LA and began a new life.  It was about working and moving to a new apartment and figuring adulthood out.  But happiness isn’t sold next to shower curtains at Target, happiness comes from doing what you love.  For me, that’s writing and performing comedy.  When I do that, when I practice what I love, I feel fulfilled.  And then little mundane tasks, like buying paper towels, are so utterly forgettable, and even the really awful shit in life is manageable, because I have this precious little key to happiness, and that is my passion, and it is how I am sustained.



Author's Note:  Hi!  Hi friends!  Was that weird for you?  Do you feel cheated out of a laugh?  I'm sorry if that's the case.  And I PROMISE that my next post will be funny and just straight comedy--no depression involved.  In the meantime, you can look at this to feel better:  kittehroulette.com
xoxo, Annamal